


Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

by Nahara



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a pathologist at the Camelot City Morgue. One night an old acquaintance shows up on Merlin’s autopsy table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on urban fantasy. Edward Cullen eat your heart out.

I’m startled awake by the sudden and rather insistent buzzing of my pager. I jerk my head out from the depths of the sofa cushions and, forgetting quite how narrow this bloody sofa is, I roll right off it onto the floor.

Gaius would kill me (and examine the body himself no doubt) if he were here to see this little episode of stupidity. I shouldn’t be in the Down Room at all and certainly not asleep while on duty. I’m the one who offered to take the graveyard shift – no pun intended. I’d demanded Gaius take the night off as he’d been working for almost twenty hours straight. None of us like to admit it but he’s not young anymore and this job is exhausting and tedious at the best of times. And these are not the best of times by any measure.

Glancing down at the pager I read: _Reception_.

I rush down the empty corridors towards the front entrance of the Camelot City Morgue. Running is not really my forte (any more than sleeping on a sofa seems to be) and this is made abundantly clear when I trip over a stray bin, career around a corner, and almost slam face first into the receptionist. I manage to stop myself, skidding to a halt with barely an inch to spare.

The receptionist, a cocky bugger by the name of Val, has moved from his post behind the front desk and is therefore blocking my way. I think he’s attempting to flirt with the paramedic. _Her_ name is Morgana Fae and she looks… a little bit frightening, actually. I think it’s the intense way she stares at you and all those wards tattooed on her arms. The tats are mostly spells for clear sight – nothing threatening – but there are a few intricate ones that speak against darker creatures: dream catchers, sandmen, even Morpheus himself. I’m also positive that there’s at least one tat warding off the common or garden variety human dickhead (like Val). Even though we’re sort of friends now, she still scares the shit out of me.

“Good,” says Morgana when she sees me standing (a bit too close) behind Val. She moves to stand between us, promptly ignoring her admirer which is a bit hilarious in all honesty. Val has a ward tattooed on the back of his neck, it’s of two intertwining serpents and I’m pretty sure they’re glaring at me right now. They aren’t as strong as any of Morgana’s though. Personally, I’ve never been one for permanent physical wards. People like me have… other means.

“I’ve another John Doe for you, Dr Emeric,” Morgana continues with a scowl. I take the clipboard she’s waving under my nose – she's not really one for patience – and give her notes a quick once over. My amusement fades, my heart lurching painfully at the words. It isn’t good.

“Another one.” I shake my head. “I just…”

“Yeah.”

We both stare at the black body bag.

“That’s the sixth we’ve had in as many days,” I say.

“I don’t care what the government says.” Her voice is low and harsh. “This is really happening. This is _war_. A curfew isn’t going to help the body count. Even those without the Sight can see that.”

I don’t say it out loud, but I agree with her. It _is_ war and the Others have made it clear beyond words that they plan to win. The Others have always been around, living in the shadows of our light, but recently they’ve begun to rebel. I’m not sure against whom they are rebelling, not specifically anyway, just that they want to wreak havoc and pain on us Daylighters – and they _are_ winning.

We wheel the gurney down the hallway and into one of the autopsy rooms. Morgana helps me transfer the body from the gurney to the table before wheeling away again, doors swinging shut behind her. I’m left alone in my echoing, little room.

Before opening the body bag, I scrub my hands with strong yellow soap and wash them under a stream of hot water. Once dry, I snap on a pair of latex gloves. My digital recorder is lying on the counter by the sink and I move it next to my shining surgical equipment. I like using the recorder so that any notes I have I can make orally… Gaius used to have the med students write down all his comments (which I told him a million times wasn’t their job) until he discovered the delights of modern technology. With more than a few nudges from me.

With everything in place I click on the recorder and stand over the body, fingers hesitating on the zip. This, believe it or not, is my least favourite part of being a pathologist these days. Not the blood or the puffy, sallow skin of a cadaver or even the unholy smell – but the hope. I hope with all my heart that I won’t see two little puncture marks on the side of a neck. I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime, three lifetimes in fact.

At last I unzip the body bag, opening it in one swift move from head to foot. I begin talking loud and clear for the recorder: “March 26th. Time of arrival, 00.41 hours. Case number three three two dash alpha foxtrot. John Doe was found in- ”

As I turn back to have a good look at the face I nearly faint from shock. I’m gagging on my own tongue. It isn’t disgust that has me reeling back from the table, heart thump thumping in my chest like it wants to punch its way through me, but because I _know_ that face. This is no John Doe, not to me. This is... _was_ Arthur Pendragon.

I can’t look at him lying there, so I keep my eyes closed and my back against the far wall, hands splayed against the cool tile. Unwanted and unbidden memories of Arthur flicker across my eyes like a reel of film.

I see his face as it was then; a sloppy mop of fair hair, big blue eyes, a strong angular jaw. Arthur had been good looking in a boyish and charismatic sort of way. I hear his laugh and then his arsenal of cutting phrases, hurtful and no doubt learned from his aristocratic arse-hole father.

I see us protesting the same injustices, in the same places, with the same voice, yet unable to reconcile our own differences. I thought Arthur was a shallow ponce, taking on a cause because he felt he _needed_ one; he thought I was, he told me later, a ‘self-righteous prick’. We did a lot of glaring and posturing like a pair of tomcats.

Then: us waking up on smoggy summer mornings stark naked, tangled together like a human jigsaw of arms and legs. I only have to concentrate a little to remember the feel of his lips and tongue on me, hot and moist. No one, before or since, had ever driven me that crazy. He wasn’t a ponce or shallow, not when you really looked at him. Through his centre ran bright streaks of fearlessness and compassion.

Last: The thick, burnt smell of blown candles – the scent of endings and beginnings. I see my hands on his cock and his on mine and hear shouting; the arguments over the meaning of truth; the reconciliations; the straw that broke the camel’s back; the years of empty sheets…

I bump my head against the wall, hard. I don’t want to see anymore of this sad film because I’ve lived it all and know the ending by heart.

Taking a few deep breaths, I walk back to the table. My heart is beating slower but feels bruised as though someone took a hammer to it. When I look down into that familiar face again, I know that it really is Arthur and not some freakish Freudian hallucination. He looks older. I haven’t seen him since… well, for almost seven years if my maths is correct. His skin is not sallow, but so milky-white that I can see the blue veins in his forehead like some archaic map. His lips are pale except for a small smudge of dried blood. In the harsh electric lights of the examination room, he looks terrible. He’s no longer handsome. How could anyone be, when life is what makes us beautiful?

I take a deep breath and continue talking to the recorder. “The John Doe has been identified by Dr Merlin Emeric, presiding forensic pathologist, as… as Arthur Pendragon. He was twenty-nine years old at time of death.”

Carefully and inch by inch I slip the body out of the black bag and put it aside. The body now lies before me, naked and cold. I almost turn off the recording and leave it all for Lance when he comes to take over my shift at four. But I feel as though I owe it to Arthur to minimise this last great indignity.

I run my fingers across his face, feeling for any abnormalities under the skin. I keep up a steady stream of comments as I move onto examining his neck. I see the two tell-tale puncture wounds above the jugular. The notes from Morgana said they’d be there but for a split second I had hoped for a mistake. I don’t want Arthur to have died this way, another casualty of the guerrilla war waged by the Others. The punctures are small and round with very little blood to show for such a violent death.

“There is no blunt force trauma to the cranium or spine. The probable cause of death is from two puncture wounds on the right side of the neck. They are consistent with a… vampire bite.” The words make me shiver but I don’t stop.

“In ninety percent of vampire cases the bite is the prime cause of death because it leads to severe blood loss and coronary thrombosis.”

I am detached and efficient as I examine the rest of the body. There are a few small bruises on his upper arms and his fingernails are torn to shreds, as though he’d been clawing at his assailant. I clamp down _hard_ on these intrusive feelings trying to bubble up from wherever the hell I’d stashed them. I thought Arthur Pendragon had been purged from my system, but it seems not.

I turn from the body to my surgical equipment. It is time to cut him open and I can feel my hands shaking. Without warning I am flung across the room. The scalpel I’d picked up flies out of my hand and I can feel arms wrapping around me in a vice-like grip mid-air.

I – we – land hard on the floor. The wind is knocked out of me as my back and head smack onto the tiles. My vision spirals and I’m disoriented long enough that I don’t realise until a few heartbeats later that the arms are not only still clamped around me but there are… _fangs_ pressed against my neck.

Shit.

 _Shitshitshitshit._ I freeze, not because freezing will help my situation really, but it’s what humans do when we’re scared witless, even humans like me... I mean lots of animals have the same reaction; rabbits and deer do it all the time, just stand there on the road and watch as the lights swing towards them.

He shouldn’t be alive… or rather he shouldn’t be animate. I can’t understand it, none of the other cadavers have ever rugby tackled me before. The fangs hurt; they’re so bloody _sharp_ though they’ve not broken the skin. They’re digging deep, pushing down as far as possible without actually puncturing me. I can feel my pulse racing fast, beating precariously against the pressure. There is no sound or movement from the body above. My sight is taking a while to orientate itself, not that I’d see much. Even with blurred vision, all I can make out is a pale shoulder and blond hair.

I suck in a breath but its difficult because the body is heavy and a – I almost laugh hysterically as the words come to me – _dead weight_.

“A – Arthur?”

I’m not sure if it’s my voice, the sound of someone saying his name, or none of the above, but he’s warming up like someone’s turned on his internal body heater. It doesn’t feel like a slab of marble is hugging me anymore.

“Arthur,” I say again. “Please.”

The fangs retract suddenly, leaving me breathless with relief. The teeth are gone but his lips are still pressed up against my neck and he’s continuing to warm up, so fast now that I’m starting to sweat from the heat of him. It’s terrifying and intimate. This close, flush against Arthur – _against a vampire_ – I can tell he doesn’t have a heartbeat. My own heart is beating wildly, even with the teeth gone. It is loud and furious enough for the both of us.

His weight shifts and I can breathe a little easier. Then the arms move from around me and he is holding his own weight completely. Arthur’s breath is warm on my neck – Hell only knows _how_ he’s breathing at all, I mean, are vampires supposed to breathe? The whole living-dead thing is hard to get your thoughts around.

There’s another shift from Arthur. Then his mouth, still so close to my pulse, opens. No teeth, no pain, just a few wet strokes of a tongue. It’s soft and slick and warm making me shiver. The intimacy of the touch makes me arch against him. I feel something digging into my thigh. My leg twitches, brushing up against his length and I can feel his dick through my thin green scrubs and it’s long and hard. Rather impressive for a guy with no pulse. Neither of us say anything, though I’m not sure whether he can’t speak or just won’t.

His lips are sucking at my neck, dragging fangless teeth across my skin making me shiver. Arthur is sweating now and I arch again, body jerking with its own need, independent of my brain. Without really thinking about it I rip off my latex gloves, desperate to touch him properly. I’m still frightened, still shit-scared of this vampire and how I’m reacting, but I need to touch _Arthur._ Maybe if I close my eyes and hold onto his name, I can just…

I bring up my glove-free hands and touch his chest, feeling them slip over his torso, sliding with the sweat. I still haven’t seen his face. I’m not sure I want to. Touching is enough for now, feeling the _bump bump bump_ of his ribs, the curve of his lower back, soft hair between my fingers. As I trace the shell of his left ear with my thumb, Arthur lifts his head momentarily and _sighs_. I’m not expecting such a normal, human sound and it goes right through me, as though I’m made of nothing more solid than cobwebs.

If I wasn’t hard before I am now. I realise that touching isn’t enough for me. Touching between Arthur and I was never enough. All those times before, when we would…

I move my hands from his hair to the back of his neck and tug gently, trying to manoeuvre his face above mine.

I don’t see him move but faster than I can blink his lips – fucking hell, those wonderful, wide lips – are mashed against mine. I open my mouth and let him in, his tongue and breathy sighs. I want to bite down on his lips but think better of it considering the circumstances. Arthur’s erection is sliding hard and urgent across my thigh and I lift my back, trying to move with him. My own erection hurts, pressing against my flimsy trousers and desperate for Arthur’s burning skin.

We don’t exactly fall into rhythm, there’s too much movement, both of us too selfish to relent for the other. I want all of him and right now. I don’t care about the hard tiles against my back or the fact that my right foot is falling asleep, I want Arthur and I can’t wait.

He breaks off our kiss, panting hot onto my lips. I can’t see his eyes; they’re shielded by a curtain of gold, sweat stained hair. And then:

“Merlin.”

Without warning I’m coming and coming hard. I can’t help it. I mean, I’ve not heard my name said by that voice in so long. My hips lift off the floor and my eyes roll back into my head and I’m jerking and crying out. I don’t think I’m saying anything particularly romantic or even obscene. All I can do is ride this out, this is… I just – it’s tough – so long since…

When my vision clears, I’m breathing hard and can feel the sticky dampness spreading across the crotch of my trousers. I feel as though I’ve run a race. Actually no, not just ran a race, but won it too. It feels _good_.

It takes a moment for the fog in my brain to lift, but when it does I realise that Arthur is still hard. I feel a blush start from my neck and head due north. Arthur is humping my leg desperately, trying to get the friction just right but it doesn’t seem to be working. So I move my hand between us and grab his leaking cock; it’s soft and hard all at once. He plants his lips on me again, sucking and licking at my bruised neck. It only takes a few pumps of my fist to bring him to his own release.

I watch him come into my fist and over my chest. His eyes are closed tight and his whole face is tight and grim. Something about it has me sucking in an unsteady breath and makes my nose prickles with the warning of impending tears. I don’t cry but continue to watch Arthur ride his way through his inner demons.

At last he slumps onto me, crushing my chest. I don’t mind. I wipe my sticky hand on my scrubs and across the floor. We just lay there, me staring up into the electric lights and thinking about nothing in particular. I like not having to think.

The pressure on my chest eases all at once, catching me by surprise. Arthur is no longer on top of me or anywhere in my sight. I can’t see him and dread begins to filter through my system. I hate that he can move so fast. Arthur always had quick reflexes but this is taking the piss.

“Merlin.”

I jerk around and climb quickly to my feet. Arthur is standing over by the door, back ram-rod straight and his eyes… at last I can see his eyes. They are still very blue, but they are feral. Not human. My nerves alight with panic, my animal instinct of flight pumping through my system. I shiver and wonder if I had seen the eyes while we were… well, I might have not done what I just did.

“How…?” I can barely get the word past my lips.

He doesn’t answer but I get the feeling that he will, that he’s just measuring his words. Arthur’s talked so little I wonder if maybe he’s relearning how to speak.

“I am now Other,” he says in this new voice of his, dispassionate and calm. It is so unlike my own Arthur that I can’t help but think of the vampire standing before me as Not-Arthur.

“I am not the same man you knew, but I remember. Your face haunts me. I am not sure I like these memories. They hurt, and this new body should not be susceptible to pain. You make me weak.”

“Um…”

I mean, what do you say to that? _Oh, thanks mate. Cheers. I’ve missed you too._ Finally he moves and does so at a normal speed. Not-Arthur walks towards me, naked and pale as death. My legs scream at me to run – there’s a vampire in the room – but I don’t.

“I remember _me_ ,” he continues, eyes roving over my face. “I was… full of remorse. We parted badly.”

“Yes,” I breathe.

His hand moves forward but I flinch and the hand never touches me.

“I beg your forgiveness,” he says quietly.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“I don’t know.” He glances away, watching something only he can see. Perhaps he is watching his own film reel, watching all of it flicker by even though he knows the bitter ending. I wonder and wonder and wonder if perhaps there is enough Arthur still alive inside that vampire to override his new instincts. No matter how much I’d like to, I don’t have an answer to that question.

“Who do you _want_ to be?” I ask, interrupting our silence.

He doesn’t say anything and just looks at me with those Not-Arthur eyes. I don’t want this to be the end, not yet, so I show him all of me – the parts I hid, the lies – so that maybe he can find some of himself – some of Arthur.

I can feel my magic begin to spill from my pores, gold like the colour of my eyes when I’m working enchantments.

“I am who I am,” I say, holding out my hands, palms up. The gold pools and then slowly begins to drip over the edges of my fingers. “Who do you want to be?”

The magic is too hot now and I can barely hold it all as I wait for an answer. It builds on itself, growing like vines and through it I can see two blue eyes watching me. I am on a precipice now, staring out into the gold unknown.

Whoever-he-is steps forward to stand unflinching in the heat of my magic.

“Arthur.”

I smile and my magic explodes like fireworks.


End file.
